


At the Broken Places

by loveislouder



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:58:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1437463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveislouder/pseuds/loveislouder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then, with a “hello” and an adorably shy smile, Harold had come into her life and changed it forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Broken Places

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. – Ernest Hemingway

Grace Hendricks doesn’t believe in ghosts, as a rule.

And yet -

She swears she can feel him watching her sometimes. She can feel the intensity of his gaze as if he’s right behind her, but, of course, he’s never there when she turns her head to look. He’s gone, and she’s grief-stricken and lonelier than she’s ever been. Before Harold, she’d been alone and it hadn’t been a problem. She’d relished her quiet life of solitude and if she sometimes wished for the companionship she saw enjoyed by countless couples, well, there was no use dwelling on that.

And then, with a “hello” and an adorably shy smile, Harold had come into her life and changed it forever. He’d given her the gift of being known in her entirety and loved wholly and unconditionally, and living alone could never be the same after that.

There are signs that make her believe with a certainty that leaves her breathless that Harold is still alive, or watching over her somehow. Every Christmas since she lost him, she’s found a gift outside her door. Nothing he’d have typically sent her, mind you, just a present to remind her that she was loved. The notes all read exactly that: “you are loved.” No details about the recipient or the deliverer, typed in the same impersonal font again and again.

And it’s not just the gifts. A few months after Harold dies, a soup kitchen opens up in Washington Square Park. The sign outside simply reads “Grace’s.” When she goes there to volunteer, she asks the staff who’d funded the project, and they tell her they don’t know. Apparently, he’s a very private person. Rather like her. Rather like Harold. Long ago, she’d remarked that there wasn’t enough resources for the homeless in their area and a soup kitchen would be a good idea. Harold had smiled at her and affectionately asked if she ever stopped considering other people to think about herself. The memory brings a bitter grimace to her face; since the accident, she’s scarcely had an hour where she hasn’t thought of herself and her broken heart.

She’s read all about the stages of grief, and how, after suffering through denial, uncharacteristic bouts of anger, desperate attempts at futile bargaining and depression that seems unbearable, she’ll one day reach acceptance. And then she’ll lose it, and then she’ll struggle to find it again, to somehow sit with the knowledge that is tearing her apart, to drag herself through another day.

She copes as best she can, and some days are harder than others. Septembers are the most painful. In September she pushes herself to get out of bed and make a cup of tea, and she wonders if Harold would be proud. Aprils and Januarys are a little better than Septembers. Only a little. She makes sure to eat at least one ice-cream cone every January, and the taste is bittersweet on her tongue. And in April she goes to the Guggenheim and the quiet café and every place he sent her on her birthday scavenger hunt, as though retracing their old paths would somehow bring him closer to her.

Talking about him gets easier with time, so that when Detective Stills stops by, she can answer his questions with dry eyes and a steady-enough voice. She’s proud of herself for that. Never mind that she cries to the point of giving herself a headache upon his departure.

At times like that, she pulls on a thick jumper, drinks too many cups of tea and paints until her eyes are so full of canvas and colour that there’s no room for ghosts or tears. Her paintings are imbued with something dark and decidedly different after she loses Harold.

She figures that loss is something that changes people to the core, and maybe it’s a gift to have loved someone so deeply, just as much as it’s a curse to be bereft and left behind. She had four blissful years with Harold, and despite the heaviness in her heart, she wouldn’t give them up for anything.


End file.
